Was this to be my life? I reflected as I did the housework. Spending our weekends with Harry rotating his tyres, and me swishing a wettex around the toilet bowl rim and taking lint off clothes that were washed with a loose tissue in the pocket, while pretending to the women in my book club that life was sooooo busy, when in truth my most current reading material was the steam iron warranty?

I pep-talked myself into finding happiness in the little things that life offered, but things that used to make me happy – the joy of discovering a forgotten twenty bucks in a jeans pocket; having my parking ticket validated by the cinema; the free foundation sample in a magazine – meant nothing now. If I’d been back at work, even seeing an article by a colleague I disliked be spiked by the editor, usually an office highlight, would have left me flat. And speaking of the office, I was so desperate to get back on the job that I would have spiked myself on a daily basis, impaled there on the editor’s desk, just for a whiff of newsprint. Not only is writing better and cheaper than therapy, but it would take my mind off my many misdemeanours and painful longings. My boss, Angela, knew about my misdiagnosis, but refused to answer my calls about coming back to work.

In bed one night, as Harry laboured above me, my nose tucked into his shoulder, I ticked off all the experiences in life that were overrated – oysters, yodelling, experimental opera, expressive dance, sorbet, cricket – eventually concluding that there was nothing as insipid as sex with a husband when your heart is not in it. It was like dancing with no music.

After Harry fell asleep, I slipped outside. Beyond the jagged outline of the suburban houses, the lights of Sydney glowed invitingly in the distance. In the other direction, across the bay, lay the jet-black expanse of the national park.

The southerly buster had brought a chill to the evening air. I breathed deeply and felt my body tingle in the coolness. It made me think of Brody’s touch. By day I walked through a world full of carefree, happy people who had not just lost the love of their lives, and at night I silently cried myself to sleep.